Things Undone
by somewhereelsee
Summary: AU and slight OOC. Nathan and Haley in a different world. One where the lack of success drives them to kind of hate each other. Sometimes. Maybe.
1. Chapter 1

First time posting to here. Rating's there for language, suggestiveness, and just general 'don't really know what it falls under.' I don't own anything and NYU probably doesn't have a baseball team.

Summary: Nathan and Haley in a different world. One where the lack of success drives them to kind of hate each other. Sometimes. Maybe.

* * *

Their apartment's tiny.

He barely makes enough to hold it together, playing for the Development League in New York. She sings in small cafes by night and waitresses by day.

It's a cliché of the worst order.

* * *

He made it through three months of college, long enough to hate the routine of classes and being away from her. The minute he learned the D league would take him at 18, he was at the first scheduled combine and kissing ass to Brooklyn's GM like only Dan Scott's son knows how. They called less than a week later and he appeared at her dorm.

She lasted a year. More specifically, the money lasted a year. Waitressing and scholarships didn't cut it and so she withdrew. Half her stuff was already in the crappy apartment just barely under the team's cap so he wasn't surprised when she showed up with the rest of it and tearily shoved the official paperwork at him.

They fight like it's their full time jobs. They split shifts during the week and take turns slamming their way out and crashing at their friends' places. They keep overnight bags at the ready and have the locksmith on speed dial. He swears she can't function without his dick and she swears he can't function without her period.

For a week, there's been constant wisecracks about leaving him for the baseball player she knows from college. They still talk and last season he was called up to some team he couldn't give a shit about. Their tiny apartment has a huge dent in the kitchen wall from the plate he threw in response.

She hates that he leaves the bathroom door open when he showers. Especially since Murphy's Law states that's always when her friends come over. He knows she secretly loves it. After all, who wouldn't want to brag about having him in their bed?

He hates that she bitches about every little thing. Her friends and fans wouldn't love her voice so much if they had to hear it that fucking often. But it is damn gorgeous.

Everyone knows they're absolutely miserable together. Can see it every time she shows up to work or a gig with tired red eyes and he wanders in late to practice with bruised knuckles from punching walls. Every day, it's a running commentary of "But you can do so much better, honey" and "Why do you even want a girlfriend anyway? You're about to blow UP!" respectively.

It's like the only thing holding them together are a bunch of faded promises from high school.

He's gone practically half the year. Living in hotel rooms and off fast food with the spare change of guys he played college ball with. They're in bars and clubs every night after games. They scout for girls and make false promises of agents drawing up contracts to the big leagues as they speak. The battle to the NBA is a hard fought and competitive one, but everybody needs some downtime. His roommate's the worst offender but the most effective and efficient of the team. There's hardly a night he spends in their provided accommodations.

Her life's lonely and cold when he's on the road. But she's used to both. Lonely since she spends half the time he is home on a friend's couch anyway and cold since there's no hot water and some months the heating doesn't get paid. Nonetheless, there's a drag in her step and her friends have to continually remind her to perk up, not to half ass her performances. "This is New York City! You never know who's watching." She cries in bed wearing his old jersey and writes crappy songs about missing her shitty boyfriend.

It's almost like they're broken up. But then he calls, every night and without fail.

He settles into bed with his fully charged cell phone (with them, he just never knows) and takes a deep breath to prepare for battle. Their conversations tend to go the same way. He ends up scrambling for a towel, ever thankful his roommate's nowhere in sight. He hangs up on her mid-rant. He begs her to sing to him and falls asleep to the sound of her breathing.

* * *

The duffel bag drops to the floor and he rubs a tired hand over his face, squinting into the darkened apartment. He can only hope none of her shit's standing in his way to the bed because that woman will scatter sheet music in every nook and cranny of the place then bitch him out for leaving footprints and food stains on perfectly good paper.

After depositing a trail of clothes, he collapses onto the bed, half smothering her small form. She won't care. Hell, after he's been gone for this long, she actually welcomes him with open arms. Small hands grab his face and jerk his head up and to the side. They both sigh when her lips smack against his and her body does its best to wrap around him even more.

"Oh good, you're back. Maybe now the neighbors will stop looking at me like I've dumped your body in the Hudson or something," she mutters.

He ignores her and slides his hand down her back, feeling the meshy nylon material of his high school jersey. Inwardly, he's pleased she didn't burn it. He figured it'd be the next piece of his clothing to go after the knockdown, drag-out fight they had last night.

"I'm sleeping here, jackass."

She sounds testy and he sighs. Maybe hanging up on her the night before coming home hadn't been the greatest idea. "Fine, whatever." But she doesn't make a move to let go, just grips his shoulders tighter.

It's the best feeling they've had all week.

* * *

"What are you doing? It's like six in the freaking morning. Get back in this bed, jackass."

He makes a face at her and continues to pull up his jeans. "Get a new insult." She won't. She hates cursing and even "jackass" is a stretch for her. Unless they're doing it. Then she's got a mouth on her that would make a sailor blush.

"I got practice," he mumbles. There's a definite lack of his clean clothes around. Probably because she's been sleeping in his shirts since he's been gone. He picks up the one nearest the bed and does a sniff test. It smells like her. Definitely wearable.

Her brow furrows and she kicks her legs out from under the covers. He groans and retreats to the bathroom. "No, you don't. Not today or tomorrow. Now get back in bed before we get sick and tired of each other again and can't stand to be in the same room." She pouts when the shirt makes it over his head and covers his chest.

"Like in ten minutes?" He rolls his eyes when she scoffs before nodding in agreement. "Yes, I do. With the Knicks."

He lets that hang for a second before glancing out of the bathroom and over to the bed. Wide, unblinking stare, mouth open, hands fallen dead at her sides. He's not entirely sure she's breathing. Spitting and rinsing, he snatches up the bag by the door and sets out.

"Excuse me!"

The wince at her high pitched shriek is involuntary. So that's how she hits those high notes. He can only groan when she follows him out into the hallway, wearing the jersey and nothing else. Only he's supposed to see her like that.

"What did you just say?" The question's a demand and he rolls his eyes.

"I got practice with the Knicks," he enunciates. Her eyes widen again, as if hearing it for the first time, and he hides the smirk. "That all? I'm going to be late."

Her eyes roll and her arms immediately cross over her chest. "You're a fucking asshole." His eyebrows raise at that one and his mouth falls open without an insult at the ready for once.

"Congratu_fucking_lations. I'm going back to bed." He can't even formulate a response before her gorgeous legs carry her back inside the apartment.

"Bitch!" His voice is slightly hoarse with surprise. He takes a moment and realizes he's going to be late for practice.

* * *

She takes the steps slowly, careful to balance the groceries in her arms, and notices the guy leaning by her door. "I have mace," she notes halfheartedly. He looks nervous as all hell and is more likely to be robbed than to try and rob her. She bets his suit costs more than the rent.

"Hi," he jolts into action, straightening and extending a hand her way. She stares plainly at it then the brown bags before he retracts it. "You must be Haley. I'm Clay, Nathan's agent." He volunteers to take a bag and she shifts one his way.

"So he's really with the Knicks?" she questions, quickly undoing the locks. He's surprised. She doesn't need to look at him to know that.

He clears his throat softly. "I mean, if he's survived practice today," he tries to cover with a joke.

She grins tiredly. "Don't worry about that." Her boyfriend may be an ass but he's amazing at what he does. "Are you waiting for him or something?"

"Yeah. He said he'd meet me here after practice." He glances around the apartment with practiced disinterest.

Everything's in plain view. The bed, the couch and TV, and the kitchen are all shoved into different corners and it's a mess. Her stuff, save the music, is put away well enough but his crap overflows and practically overtakes the small space. The walls are littered with dents and holes and she struggles to remember how each one got there.

She nods and throws him a bottle of water, amused when he fumbles it. Nathan catches everything thrown his way, though sometimes she wishes he wouldn't. "I don't know when practice is over but he's not going to be here."

"We had a fight this morning. He's not coming back here tonight. Call his cell if you want to find out where he is. Probably Jake's," she comments disinterestedly, trying hard not to stare at the Colin-the-baseball-player hole. He promised to be at the show tonight. There'll probably be another Colin-the-baseball-player hole by tomorrow afternoon.

"Oh," says the over-dressed, out of his element agent. Already, she's not impressed.

She smiles tightly and gestures for the door. "I've got a show tonight. Could you…?" He barely gets the hint and stumbles his way out the door, tripping over the clothes Nathan shed last night. She rolls her eyes and mumbles a "Wait!"

A quick dig through her purse and she tosses a small can his way. "You need it more than I do." He looks sheepish but pockets the mace. She doesn't know who let this fool off Wall Street but it wasn't a smart move.

* * *

He hustles down the sidewalk after the tall, now extremely wealthy basketball player. The street's barely nicer than the one he'd visited that morning but Nathan seems completely oblivious to his surroundings. Probably because he's 6'4" and built like a wall.

"Going to be late," he mumbles softly under his breath. He keeps his hands in his pockets and his feet moving, hustling down the busy sidewalk.

His eyes widen at the line coming out of the club Nathan's headed towards. It gives the ball player pause before he shrugs his shoulders slightly and moves forward. "Aren't you guys…?" He trails off at the evil glare his new client shoots him.

"What? You got something to say?" he practically growls out.

Head shaking, he sighs. Relationship off limits, noted.

He nods at the bouncer and suddenly they're squeezed inside, jammed in against the wall to wall people. The waitresses all greet Nathan like he's some kind of lowlife asshole boyfriend. Which he suspects his client is for the most part.

He just knows they're going to get kicked out. He sighs again and somehow over the din and noise of the crowd Nathan must hear him. He whips around and even with the low lighting there's a look of death trained on the agent.

"Listen, I haven't seen my girl sing in over a month. A month. You want to stay my agent? You'll shut the hell up." The threat is low in comparison to the crowd and music but Clay nods his understanding.

One of the waitresses, specifically the one who had just rounded their table and slapped Nathan on the back of the head, jumps onto the stage. She's a pretty blonde who gets the crowd excited. She introduces Haley, the James is new information to Clay, which really gets the people roaring.

"You all must know by now but it definitely doesn't hurt to say again…Dominant Records' newly signed recording artist—guys, she was IN THE STUDIO today—Haley James!"

His eyes widen at that part while the crowd gets going again. Nathan hadn't mentioned that to him. All he got was "bitchy, pain in my ass…has a great ass…not going _anywhere_."

No wonder it's packed tonight. Good news travels well. He chances a glance at Nathan, expecting his cocky, condescending smirk. Guy must love hearing that.

It's a revelation. His heart, assuming he has one, looks like it's dropped to his feet. The man is a pale white under the low lighting and he seems to be in a cold sweat. The waitress, who'd done the introduction, circles back around the room and pauses long enough to laugh at him.

The house lights turn on and he sees the girl from this morning, a little more made up, take the stage with a guitar in hand. Everyone blinks around in confusion but she beams a could-actually-light-a-street smile into the crowd. It's a marked difference from the tired, tight-lipped, and agitated behavior of the morning.

She wants to thank each one of them personally for supporting her and being there for her. She claims nothing's going to change. She's going to make it back as often as she can. She'll never forget what this place was to her. She's never going to forget what they were to her. It's pure cheese but somehow sincere beyond all belief.

Her eyes search the crowd and somehow he knows what, who, she's looking for. Nathan's slid down in his seat, eyes wide and unmoving and face blank with what must be a thousand different shades of guilt. He wants to yell at the man to stand up, scream to her that he's sitting right here. He doesn't.

The slightly hopeful expression drops and she quirks an eyebrow before shrugging. A mental _well, what'd you expect?_

She plays her set. Even though it's not his style, he has to admit she's good. Nathan's raised his head off the table enough to actually watch her but his expression's bleak.

The minute she's done and off stage, Nathan gets up and shuffles toward the door. His mouth screws up and he wants to stop him but it's not his business. He's likely to get fired for the thoughts he's having about interfering.

"Oh hell no!"

The waitress, on the other hand, has no qualms about it. He smirks slightly and taps Nathan on the shoulder, pointing to the door. Not his business and he's entirely grateful.

* * *

They look a mixture of regret and anger. He can't help but let his win out, slamming his fist down on her guitar case.

She rolls her eyes. "You here to break up with me now that you're in the NBA?"

"You trying to get me to break up with you now that you have a recording contract?" He rolls his eyes right back and she crosses her arms defensively.

"Insecure ass."

"Jealous bitch."

They maintain the death glares for another minute. Then she leaps forward and hugs his neck desperately. He steadies an arm against her lower back so she can wrap her legs around his waist.

"Congratulations. Have I said congratulations?" she wonders breathlessly into his neck.

He leans against a wall because she is just too close for his knees to be steady and nods. _Congratu_fucking_lations_ he mentally corrects. But it's not the time. "Studio, huh? Congrats, baby."

She nods, biting her lip to keep the smile from cracking open her face. "I did this showcase thing last week. They called right after."

"You didn't say anything." His tone's accusatory but he can't help it. She's supposed to tell him everything. And she normally does whether or not he actually gives a shit about it. This is too important to not get a mention.

She rolls her eyes. If anyone's eyes were ever going to get stuck that way, it'd be hers. "These things aren't exactly set in stone. I didn't want to say anything before I was sure. I signed the contract yesterday. Wasn't about to tell you something like this over the phone."

He pulls a face but nods. "Okay."

"Well it's not like I was going to take it back if you didn't approve." Her voice is sarcastic but she's playing with the ends of his hair. "Knicks? When'd that happen?"

"After our last game," he mumbles. He's distracted by her necklace that's taken up residence in her cleavage, but she's not complaining.

"27 points, 10 assists, four rebounds," she recites easily. Girl doesn't know jack about basketball but she knows him.

He nods in recollection. "Hired Clay, signed the contract, two years done deal. Let's go home, baby." They're halfway out the door and to the private celebration that should have happened last night.

The shrill waitress from earlier calls her back and she's got that goofy-looking, steroid-injecting baseball player on her arm. If only that were a little true.

She greets him with a wide smile and open arms. He wishes she was doing it just to piss him off but her personality's practically bubbling tonight. His eye twitches in response to the baseball player's reluctant greeting. She nudges him sharply in the side but it just makes his fists clench. Guy's in love with his girl. No reason to even pretend to like him.

The waitress sends him a triumphant glare like she's just figured out how to break them up for good. He flips her off. He may be an ass but despite initial impressions, she's no saint. The docile, puppy dog blonde wouldn't have a clue how to deal with his hellion.

The twitch spreads to his hands and feet. He wants out or to haul off and punch this sucker in the face. The latter would be best. She can feel it and squeezes his hand periodically. It works the first few times but not enough to keep him from making faces as this douche nearly drools over her in front of him.

She tires of his bouncing feet and swinging arms. He's already so much taller than her and the man plays basketball for a living, a twitch to him is a full jolt to her. A quick beat when Peyton's asking Colin a question and she leans up to his ear.

"I will fuck you unconscious tonight if you stop moving."

His smile is immediate, blinding, and completely baffling to the other two when they turn back. He might as well have cement shoes on and his arms become lead weights.

Five minutes later, the tug she gives his arm nearly pulls it out of the socket. While he's stood there with the dumbass grin on his face and a flood of images running through his mind, she's begged out of the conversation. They leave the bar and its two incredibly disappointed occupants in the dust.

"Started thinking about it, huh?" he comments knowingly. She starts a fast clip down the street, taking two steps to his every one.

"You need to be naked and in a bed now." Her reply is soft and barely heard over the dull roar of Saturday night activity.

He'd laugh but he's too busy slinging her over his shoulder and taking off at a quick jog.

* * *

"Babe, what the hell are you doing?" It's what he means to say but he's pretty sure all the comes out is a vague grunt. He's almost positive that last round resulted in a blackout of some kind because there's suddenly light from behind the curtains.

He tries to swing his arm out towards her and it moves all of two inches. His left eyelid can barely prop open enough to follow her naked bouncing form to the coffee table. He concentrates on breathing and lets out a soft groan when she unexpectedly climbs on his stomach. Damn, she really was serious.

"Please. I can't."

"Oh calm down," she smacks his face with something and it feels like paper. If she's expecting him to comment on her music, the only response she'd get is _unfuckingbelievable_. And he'd mean every syllable of it. "We need a new apartment. Like two years ago."

"Fuck yes," is his only contribution to the topic.

"Don't fall asleep, Nathan. I'm no—"

It's all he gets before his mind shuts down completely.

* * *

He wakes up to something poking him in the side. It's a Sharpie, capped thankfully. He's confused but looks over at her, finding the classifieds of a newspaper clutched in her arms. He takes a moment to be jealous before realizing how insane that thought is and slides the paper out from her grasp.

A few listings are circled and she likely fell asleep in the middle of getting to that last one. How the cap made it back on the pen, he'll never know. Quietly, he chuckles at her choices. He's finally going to give her so much more than that.

She's awake and staring at him when he looks up. "I love you."

"Yeah, now," he chuckles deprecatingly but she's still looking at him the same way.

"Never doubt for a moment I want anything more than you and me."

He hates her a little bit. For the tightness in his chest. For the rush of blood to his head. For his sudden inability to fucking breathe.

* * *

The apartment's still tiny.

It's been nearly a month. Her album's half finished and he's had three successful weeks with the Knicks. They haven't slept in the same bed in two weeks but she's been to every game. He can feel her glaring at him and probably wishing he'd cop an elbow to the face. He makes sure to smirk at the dancers and cheerleaders even though coach threatens to drop him back to the D League every time.

It's not the root of the problem but they can't decide.

She wants a place barely bigger than what they've got now. Just in a nicer neighborhood with working utilities and walls thick enough to withstand his temper tantrums. She kind of likes having their lives literally overlap. Somehow, she'd miss digging through piles of his crap to find something of hers when he's not there. When he's on the other side of the country but his shirt's still where he left it last week and his mug's sitting on the permanent ring in the coffee table.

He wants something befitting his, and her, new status. They're fucking superstars now. Something in the place needs to be plated with gold and he's not waiting for her album to be it. Sure it'd only be like another month but he's never had a lot of patience.

He makes it to the top of the stairs to see her fiddling with the locks. It's been days since he's seen her in person. Minutes since that billboard on the side of a building. She turns around before he can make a noise and kicks the door open absentmindedly. He follows her in and starts exchanging the clothes in his gym bag.

She flops on the bed. Face and eyes red with the struggle to not cry. He wonders when that became a familiar sight. He thinks of her now and envisions an agitated hand running through hair, eyes blinking back tears, body curled tight with defensiveness.

"What? Just say it."

"We're not how we used to be." It's a slow mumble and she clutches the guitar tighter.

"Like high school? You really want to go back to that shit, Haley? Fucking waste of time."

He knows what she means.

"Listen. Maybe we shouldn't do this anymore. It was about our dreams right? Well, I got mine and you got yours. We should just let this be a fresh start. I'm going to get that penthouse. You can take whatever you want here."

If she's crying, he can't hear it. He walks out the door without looking back.

He still can't fucking breathe.

* * *

The next week he sleeps in a hotel by Madison Square Garden. He runs out of clean clothes and then buys more. It's practically the end of the month before he makes it to the broken down apartment building.

Her clothes are gone. He finds some money to cover half the utilities and damages to the apartment. They're definitely not getting back any of the security deposit.

He roots around but can't find anything obvious that's missing or broken. His high school jersey's on the bathroom floor where she left it the morning he dropped the Knicks bomb. To be sure, he checks the garbage and finds his favorite dress of hers and other items he looks way too fondly on. Their pictures are still up. Only her CDs and DVDs are gone. A benefit to being complete opposites.

Three garbage bags of clothes and a barely-taped-together box of other shit later, he leaves the keys and money with the landlord downstairs. Someone will be by to donate or trash the rest of their crap next week. The man's relieved to see him go.

* * *

Clay drops by the new place the next week. There's only a bed and a TV and his clothes are still in the trash bags. The photos are meticulously hung in the hallway to the bedroom.

"Where's Haley?" he inquires confused.

"I broke up with her." He sits on the floor playing NBA Live. He's going to _be_ in the next version of the game.

Clay picks up the newly purchased single from the kitchen counter and glances down the hallway. "You're a sick son of a bitch."

* * *

"What happened in college? At Duke?"

His eye twitches and he can see Clay's bug out from behind the cameraman.

"College wasn't for me. Basketball is. I didn't want to play in Europe so I went to the D League." He barely moves his mouth during the answer.

"When you reached eligibility age, you couldn't enter the NBA draft, correct? Because you were technically already employed by the NBA in the Development League? Were you aware of that clause before you set out to join the D League?"

"No." Yes but I was a pussy who couldn't possibly go to Europe and be that far away from my girlfriend.

"It was rumored the Knicks would have called you up two years ago but then you were injured. How do you feel that set back your career?" The man must be a complete fucking idiot. More so than when he bitched out of college ball.

"It kept me from the NBA for two years. I was lucky enough that Brooklyn kept me on even though I was injured. I'd give anything to get back...that time." Not true and this reporter doesn't realize how fucking close he is to dying.

"That's all the time we can give today, gentleman," Clay cuts in but he's three questions too late.

"Nathan?"

He's ripped off his mike pack and thrown it against the nearest wall. Clay cringes as the man storms out, forcefully moving people from his path. "We'll pay for that."

* * *

He ends up standing across the street from that apartment she wanted. He doesn't even know if she lives here. He stares at the door and wills for some sign of her, even if it's the paparazzi because they are fucking stalking her these days.

"Sir?"

It's the doorman. He's jogged across the street and is approaching him with a hand held out cautiously.

"You're going to have to leave. You've been here for hours and some of the residents are concerned."

"Do you kn—?"

"Yeah, big fan actually," he admits sheepishly. "Doesn't change anything. Management wants to call the cops on you. I really don't want to do that to my favorite basketball player."

He nods and turns down the street. A curtain moves on the fourth floor.

* * *

He hasn't changed in the slightest. Still the volatile asshole she had the pleasure of living with for four years. It was a sigh of relief when he left without denting the doorman she sent out.

The agent must have lost brain cells since the time she met him. Who in their right mind schedules a live interview for Nathan Scott? And then lets the interviewer have free reign over every painful subject in his life and career?

She had cringed with every question asked. Seen his anger escalate and build until the wonderful shot of him rampaging out of the studio. The interviewer was lucky he hadn't been hospitalized after that last inquiry.

It had been the worse five months of their lives. It was the time she promised herself she would not leave this man. She would not fail him. Not unless he achieved everything he wanted in life and then some.

It was the beginning of their downfall.

* * *

"What can you tell us about these rumors of you and Nathan Scott? You both exploded into the spotlight six months ago and the media have been tripping over themselves trying to find everything about the two of you individually and separately."

She fakes a smile, her publicist says she needs to work on it, and bites her lip to keep from crying. "There's not much there. I mean, I'm a small town girl who came to New York with stars in my eyes. They dimmed for a little while but just when I'd lost hope, I was given the greatest opportunity in my life."

"And Nathan Scott?"

"Nathan and I are both from Tree Hill. We came into each other's lives again here in the city. You know, we were both struggling and trying to make it. This city is pretty difficult to crack. It's nice to have someone to split the rent with, especially one who's a familiar face. We were there for each other and supported the other's dreams. Everyone's trying to mountains out of molehills here, honestly. We've been busy these past couple months but I'm sure...we'll be good friends again."

The interviewer practically rolls her eyes at the response. She grips the chair handle to keep from slapping the follow up out of the woman's mouth. "And that's all? Struggling friends trying to make it in the big city?"

No, he was the love of my fucking life and after six years of holding his shit and mine together, he left me without a second thought. Now the only time I see him is during basketball games that I don't understand for shit because I was being an uppity bitch who didn't take a single photograph or meaningful thing from our life together. Oh and when I sit at the coffee place outside his building and pray he doesn't see me. And let's not forget when he shows up in tabloids wasted out of his mind with half-naked girls all over him.

"That's it."

The reporter sighs but gives up. "What's next for Haley James?"

"I'm going back to school. I moved to New York City to go to NYU and I've got three years left," she replies with a smile. Money is no longer an issue of any sort. And school is the one thing they never saw eye to eye on.

"So we won't be seeing you for another three years?"

"Looks like."

* * *

No. No. No. Fuck no.

She is not doing this to him.

The only reason he's surviving is because she is everywhere. On TV, over the radio, on the sides of buses and buildings, on stupid gossip sites that he actually has bookmarked now, in music videos where douchebags need to stop touching what is his.

She is not going to disappear from the public eye and still get to watch him every week during basketball season. He knows she does. It's impossible but he can tell when she's watching his games on television. She's missed six so far and when he checked later, she had an interview or show booked for the time.

He's going to have to stalk the NYU campus and that strays a little too far into jealous, possessive, crazy ex-boyfriend territory than he's willing to go. Of course, Clay would say he took up permanent residence there the second they—he broke up with her.

It wouldn't be much different than when she watches his apartment building. He's never caught her in the act, probably because she's so tiny she can hide in a potted plant, but he knows she does. Can feel it in his fucking bones. Twice now, he's come so close to finding her he wants to cry—or fuck her against the nearest wall.

He doesn't think it's a threat. He doesn't think she understands it's a threat. She's not vindictive like that, like he is. It works anyway. The thought of not seeing her, it makes him want to break down and admit she was right. He doesn't know how to function without her.

He needs to see her.

* * *

She knows she shouldn't but she lets him in when the doorman calls.

It's only a few minutes before she swings the door open and has to fight to not slam it in his face. He looks at her like he can barely recognize her and she wants to cry. She's lost weight. She's pale even for winter in New York City. Her eyes look dead even to herself and there's bags under them that only a month of sleep could cure.

"Make-up," she shrugs. She knows he's been watching for her, like she has him.

She gives him a wide berth when he steps inside, taking up most of the door frame. His added bulk is more noticeable up close. It must help to not live off grilled cheese and microwave noodles. Physically, he's in the best shape she's ever seen but his eyes are like hers.

"You felt obligated to be with me. Don't try and deny it."

So it's this again. She rolls her eyes and prays her neighbors don't call the police. They're a little too famous for the whole _This is just how we are. No, no one's being abused. We'll keep it down._ speech for it to go over well.

"Look, I spent years making you miserable. We stayed together because it was familiar and comfortable. I know that. It was the right time for you to do your thing, and me mine. I just want you to have what you deserve in life. That doesn't include me."

Her arms drop from the defensive stance across her chest. "Look around you, Nathan. Does this look anything like what I wanted in life?"

The walls are bare. There's a couch and TV but not much else. Her certified platinum record sits on the floor with a good layer of dust building. Only a photograph of her parents and siblings stands on a built-in shelf.

His mind falters and he grips the counter for balance. "Why are you going back to school?"

"I always wanted to be a teacher. It wasn't a backup plan or whatever," she shrugs. It's half the truth. The other half being that he always hated when she focused more on school than him and, yes, she's bitter enough to spite him like this.

It's a harsh reminder that she's not living _her_ dreams. "I know. We were saving money."

"And then your injury. Or more specifically you being an ass for five months. I needed to do something other than waitress. Music worked at the time. It isn't something I want or need to share with the world but I did what I had to do, okay? You couldn't so I did. That's how a relationship works. Not one person deciding they need a fresh start and then leaving before the other person can even say a word."

He heaves a sigh and narrows his eyes at her last remark. She had plenty of time. Girl can go from zero to rambling in half a second. If she wanted to say something, she could have. It's what he tells himself nightly.

"I can't even understand what the hell went through your head. We were happy, insanely so. Yeah, we were busy but our biggest argument was about an apartment. I just honestly can't believe you actually broke up with me because you got into the NBA."

His eyes widen and it's two steps before he has her backed against a wall. He's not so far gone to notice that she doesn't look the least bit afraid. "Oh don't play that bullshit with me, Haley. I only broke up with you because you were too scared to say it out loud. You did every other thing in the world to get that point across."

"Bullshit, Nathan. We weren't any different than normal. Don't try and pin this on me." Her finger pokes into his chest and he growls slightly at the action.

He shakes his head in denial. It wasn't just his imagination. It wasn't. She wanted out. Her behavior practically screamed it at him. His mind bounces with all the examples it had to offer but he takes too long and she opens her mouth yet again.

"Damn it, why are you even here? I would have been perfectly content in life if I never saw—"

"Don't fucking lie. You look for me every chance you get. I'm just surprised you haven't jumped me in a hallway yet." He scoffs derisively and folds his arms across his chest, realizing just how close he is when he nearly bumps her chin.

"You're the one standing outside my building looking like a madman."_ An insanely hot and built madman_, her hormones note, marveling at his forearms. _Who you still love_ chimes in the remaining pieces of the organ that's supposed to keep her alive. "And you're only here because if I go back to school, you'll have to pay someone to stalk me instead of just using the free service that is the paparazzi."

_Damn she knows_. "Oh and you're not watching me all the time?"

"At least I pay for cable."

"And the coffee when you're parked outside _my_ building."

And she's out of comebacks. It's a small victory.

He's still breathing harshly and bearing down on her like never before. He's got just about a foot of height on her and his shoulders are practically twice the width of hers. If she had an ounce of common sense, she'd be scared out of her mind. Too bad her only stupid decisions tend to involve him.

She's a half second away from telling him to get out, calling security and maybe the police, and filing for a restraining order. So he crashes his lips onto hers, hoists her legs around his waist, and stumbles down the hallway he prays leads to her bedroom.

* * *

He wakes and stretches languidly. It's too early to be up but, like the last few months, it's hard to stay asleep without her in the bed. He rolls away from the window and catches the perfect view of her in the bathroom. Not a stitch of clothing on and rubbing lotion into every inch of her blessed skin. It's a sight he's sorely missed.

She enters the room, robe tied about the waist, and he grins when her eyes practically molest his body. The smirk falls off about the same time the lust clears from her expression, and he can see the words forming on her lips.

"I've got a thing. Management already called."

They're not the words he's expecting but they're hard enough to hear. In seconds, he's out of bed and hustling around for the clothes she ripped off. Even in his haste, it's hard not to notice the bare walls and sparse furniture. It's like she's not even trying to make it home.

"I'll just go," he mutters, already half out the door in just his boxers, and pulls the rest of his clothes on in the elevator.

_A mistake, dumbass_, _you're the only one she makes_.

* * *

She goes home.

It's probably a stupid decision but she just can't be in that city anymore. The label's pissed as shit and her manager quit but it's not entirely her fault. They only signed her for one record, and no thank you, she would not like an extension or renegotiation. Not for X amount of money either.

Maybe she's being dumb, stupid, ungrateful, petulant, selfish, spoiled, whatever else the insiders and critics are saying. But she's not happy. It's slow going but she's starting to realize that's important too.

He isn't either though. If the technical fouls and two game suspension are anything to go by. It's destroying his credibility and she knows it may even be on purpose. He's determined to self-destruct without her.

She hates that everything comes back to him. Especially in this town. She can't drive past anything without memories. And, yeah, maybe their high school selves were stupidly naïve and caused drama purely for drama's sake but at least they were _together_.

The weirdest is living in her parents' house. They traded it in for an RV after her high school graduation. She bought it back with her first cut of the royalties.

It takes three days of staying in a near empty house with repainted walls for her to realize that this isn't home.

* * *

It takes the coach benching him for two games to shut his mouth. His teammates are looking on in pure disbelief. Sure, he'd been an ass since the beginning but some people survive that way. It's when he makes suggestions that the official go—well, then it stops being about survival.

He doesn't give a shit. She may have fallen off the face of the planet but wherever she is, it's got satellite or cable and she's watching. He's just giving her something to watch.

Her label says she's done. Her management company has removed her from their representation. The entire music industry is up in arms over her c_ardinal sin_ and her _pure disregard for the arts_. The last paparazzi shots capture her at LaGuardia, destination unknown.

Fucking hellion. _His hellion_.

He parks his ass on the bench and keeps his mouth shut. There's nothing more to be done. His attitude has ranged from cocky blowhard to violent hothead to unapproachable asshole. She wouldn't possibly leave him like this. Fucking everything they'd worked for into the ground.

It shouldn't be long.

* * *

The doorman lets her in with a strange look at her personal appearance. Yeah, okay, it's not her best but it'll have to do. The turn around time on her flights, never mind the past year or so of misery, has taken its toll.

She stares at the door before falling heavily against the wall behind her. She's not sure she can face what's inside so she sits and waits for the courage.

It's not long before she hears a bouncing basketball that stops abruptly and rolls somewhere in the hallway. Probably at the exact moment he saw her. "There are people on the floor below you, you know that right?"

He doesn't respond for a minute and she wonders if he went running back to the elevator.

"We're using my couch, I can't fit on yours."

She scoffs. "Why do you think I bought it? Most things I've done in the past year have been to spite your presumptuous ass."

"Same here," he admits quietly and offers a hand to help her to her feet. She's still thin and gaunt but, damn, if her eyes aren't that perfect spark of _in love_ and _will kick ass and take names to get what I want_. "You want me back?"

The question is defensive and taut with nerves. She looks startled and the hope is gone from her eyes but the determination? Yeah, that's taken up permanent residence.

"I never didn't." She leaves that to sink in before looking around. "Where are we going to live?"

"Not your place. It's fucking bare." He can't let go of her hand even as he struggles to get the door open and kick the basketball inside.

Her mouth drops open at his ironic statement and she snickers, "Wow. At least I have a _couch_."

"If you stop mouthing off at me, I'll fuck you unconscious tonight," he throws back at her with a smirk.

She rolls her eyes. "It sounds a lot more violent when you say it. But we're doing that regardless." Trailing down the hallway, she gingerly touches the framed pictures on the wall. The same ones she refused to take from their hole in a wall. "New frames?"

"I may have broken the old ones, once or ten times," he admits with a shrug.

"You bought new frames but completely neglected to get furniture?" her laugh is soft and disbelieving. "Tell me you at least have a bed."

He takes her hand and pulls her the rest of the way down the hall. "If I didn't..." he trails off with a raised eyebrow.

"We'd make do," she promises.

Her feet stall at the sight of his bedroom. The box spring and mattress are the only pieces of furniture. She's almost surprised that he owns sheets and that they're actually on the bed. His clothes lay in piles and the dress she'd tried to discard is half-buried in the one closest the bed. She spies a lone baseball in the corner and turns to question him before noticing the dents and holes. He's pressed her into the mattress and stripped off half their clothes before she stops laughing.

It's taken them entirely too long to get home.


	2. Chapter 2

Turns out I kind of like writing Nathan, the emotionally-stunted man-child, because, damn, Haley's not a miracle worker (or a saint). Consider this finished again. Until the next night I can't sleep. I also find this...lacking compared to the first part but eh might as well post.

And, yes, country music as (poorly) described does in fact exist. YouTube Josh Turner's _Your Man_ for proof.

* * *

"Hales, answer your damn phone!"

He doesn't get a response. It's enough to pop his head up from the pillow. No gloriously naked body next to his own, no shower running, no humming from sources unknown. Another dream.

_Fuck life._

The ringing starts again and he throws himself off the bed. He takes a moment to remind himself to find and kill whichever teammate thought it'd be fucking hilarious to change his ringtone.

"What?" he growls into the phone.

"You're not my daughter. Hello, handsome." The grin in the voice is practically visible.

He pulls the phone away from his ear, staring until he realizes it's not his. "Lydia?" _Shit._

"The one and only. Is my daughter available? Just a yes or no, no double entendre necessary, Nate. You sound a little cranky and I do not need to know if I'm interrupting."

He collapses back onto the bed in exhaustion, "How'd you know it was me? I'm barely conscious, Lydia. The world can't already know."

"Sorry to disappoint but they do. Last I heard from Marion, my baby was haunting our old house. All of a sudden someone spots her entering your apartment building yesterday and reports say she's yet to emerge. She still there?"

"Damned if I know. Doesn't seem to be," he grumbles.

The woman just clicks her tongue sympathetically. "Sounds like you two still have things to work out. Tell her to call me when she has a minute. I'll be wedding planning."

She hangs up before he can respond. Some things just never change. Like him staring blankly in confusion and shock after speaking with either of her parents.

"Was that Mom?"

The phone slides out of his grip as his head jerks up to look at her. She's got a tray with coffees and what he guesses are muffins from the place across the street. More importantly, she's standing there—and wearing his shirt.

She would have to be blind not to notice the look of pure relief on his face. "Sorry, I was hungry." The food finds a place on the floor and she tackles him back onto the bed.

"Lydia says she's wedding planning," he grins at her rolled eyes and pursed lips.

"Fine by me."

* * *

"Fuck you, Scott."

He smirks at the low grumble said in jest. Well, mostly jest. He's been an annoying little shit the past few weeks. The sudden turnaround is confusing and frustrating.

He wants to tell them not to worry. The honeymoon phase won't last long. Never does with them. In days, if not hours, they'll be at each other's throats again. Only this time, she has her own apartment to retreat to. Still, he can't bring himself to jinx them.

* * *

She places the folded clothes neatly in the dresser, straightens the hanging button downs. He'll whine later about her getting into his things but she's too bored to care.

The paparazzi are all but camped outside his building. Everyone wants to take them to task for their lies and cover ups. Because the media has such high standards these days. It'll take a few more days for them to lose interest and give up. Until then, she's pretty much stuck up here, with nothing to to do but lounge around in his clothes.

She's vaguely considering giving up the whole school thing to do this forever.

* * *

They get a new apartment. A decent sized one near Madison Square Garden that she picks and he agrees to. It's the first she comes across that looks clean, liveable, and safe. He says _yes_ and dumps the folded clothes back into the trash bags.

He thinks it's a little small but the couch and bed fit them both so he keeps his mouth shut. He knows that without her everywhere feels too empty.

She doesn't really like the place but he hasn't tried to put a hole through a wall so she deals. She knows that reliable heating is a poor replacement for his warm body and a supply of clothes with his smell.

There's an apartment not far from campus. She crashes there for naps between classes and unavoidable all nighters. It's enough to keep him paranoid.

* * *

The door swings open before him but he's too tired to question it. Coach was in a bitch mood and ran them ragged. All he wants is his bed and his girlfriend.

"Lock the damn thing," he grumbles, passing her in the kitchen. The sight of blonde curls on their couch stops him in his tracks. "What the fuck?"

"Please don't curse," she appears behind him, holding out a Gatorade as a peace offering. "The exhibit was closed. You don't mind if Peyt hangs around for a bit, do you?"

He stares at her dumbfounded. Of course she'd still be friends with that blonde bitch after becoming a chart-topping singer. "Whatever. I'll be asleep."

The bottle switches hands and he swears the blonde scoffs at him when he slams the door to the bedroom. He manages to pull off shirt and shoes and collapse onto the bed before the door opens and shuts again.

She perches on the edge of the bed then lies against him, hands gripping his shoulders. "I'll wake you for dinner, okay?" Her lips press against his neck and they both let out muted sighs. A second later, she's gone.

* * *

"That was awkward."

She can only roll her eyes in agreement. An understatement if she ever heard one. Nathan really hasn't improved in the attitude department at all. The filter between Peyton's brain and mouth is still pretty much nonexistent. "Sorry. I'm apparently certifiable for thinking you two could ever get along."

The blonde shrugs, accepting the apology. "I meant more you and him." She immediately turns to look the other way down the street. "I didn't mean to say that...out loud, at all, whatever. Sorry."

She waves it off. That's an understatement too. "I should get back up there. He's pretty useless with a dishwasher." They make plans for coffee and she uses the elevator ride up to bang her head against the wall.

* * *

He leaves on a road trip. She stuffs a duffel bag full of clothes, hers and his, and hides in the other apartment.

The night before he's due back she wakes to the door thundering on its hinges. It's late enough to be early. Her hands find a textbook that weighs a ton and her feet stumble to the door. She can barely look through the peephole without breaking her nose.

The book hits the floor with a _thud_ and she flips the locks quickly. His arms grab her in a hard hug, easily lifting her off the floor and nearly suffocating her. He moves immediately toward the bed, feet stumbling over the dropped book.

"The door," she breathes and he obligingly turns. A hand relinquishes hold to turn the locks and she uses the reprieve to hug his neck and wrap her legs around his waist.

"You weren't home." The accusation comes in bed, when it's just plain early. She grabs a shirt of his off the floor and slips it on before padding across the room to jerk the curtain closed.

"_You_ weren't home." Her explanation is accepted with a smirk and she slides back under the covers, draping herself over his warm body.

"Fuck, this bed is _tiny_."

* * *

Their best moments come when they're half-conscious. On the verge of sleep and too exhausted to care.

They don't keep the duffel bags packed anymore. His is permanently full of random Knicks gear and hers drags schoolwork between the two apartments. Their friends like them more without the three AM wake up calls. He shuts the door when he showers. She glowers silently and cleans the kitchen.

There's a worn spot on the extra wide couch. Sometimes he falls asleep out there during SportsCenter. When she realizes it, she drags herself out of bed and collapses on top of him. They wake up the next morning with aches and kinks in previously unknown muscles.

Every night he's home, they sleep together. Even if they're pissed as shit at each other and don't touch the entire night. Especially when they're actually talking. It's the one thing that still resembles a relationship and they know it.

* * *

Clay looks around the large open area. Well, large and open by New York City's standards. He's unfamiliar with the place and positive his client is too. He knows Nathan has no reason to fire him, but he's still a little nervous.

He's approached by the man himself, hat low and sunglasses on. "What's with the disguise?"

Nathan doesn't respond. Just tilts his coffee cup toward a glass store front and raises his eyebrows expectantly.

"What? That's all I get? I have no idea what's going on." More than nervous, he trails the man closer to the indicated store and stops in his tracks. "You're not serious."

"What?" Nathan barks. Clay rolls his eyes in response. Not even getting back _the love of his life_ has fixed Nathan Scott's attitude. "She's not leaving me and I'm not leaving her. Might as well get the damn thing over with."

Reluctantly, he follows the athlete into the store. "Yeah, that's the perfect reason to get married, Nathan. How romantic."

Nathan turns on him and he decides it loses some effectiveness every time he does it. "I don't do romantic. That's what you're here for."

Belated realization dawns and Clay shakes his head. He hopes they're hopeless enough to work.

* * *

She looks up and stares at the door when he comes in, tired enough to nearly trip over his own gym bag. The thing is angrily kicked to the side and she winces when it hits the wall. Pausing by the couch, he stares back. Reading glasses, yogurt in hand, pencil holding her hair up. Definite study mode.

"Hi," her lips quirk up and he blows out a breath in response.

He considers going to their bedroom and kickass bed. She's out here. "Fuck," he grunts lowly and topples over the back of the couch.

Seconds later, she hears the sounds of his soft snoring and chuckles lightly. It takes half that time to abandon her schoolwork. He's passed out on his stomach, throw pillow jammed under his dark head. She eases onto the space behind him, careful not to rest heavily on him. He'll just bitch her out for trying to suffocate him in his sleep. Her head drops to his shoulder and her arms slips over his waist, reveling in the steady rise and fall of his breathing. He flips over and drags her to lay all over him.

* * *

He tosses the box in his hand, can almost feel the weight of the _massive_ rock inside. She'll think it's massive; it's one of the smallest they could find in the damn store. The attempt to spin it on his index finger fails. The velvet's dark against their sheets and he considers leaving it there for her to find.

She's at that other hellhole now. Woke up two hours later and had a massive _and he means massive _panic attack about whatever she was studying for. Her shrieking woke him up so he jammed the pillow over his ear and told her to shut the fuck up or get the fuck out. He bolted upright on the couch to her doing just that five seconds later, door bouncing back open from how hard she slammed it.

Romance is not in his fucking wheelhouse.

He picked the ring. Even with Clay breathing over his shoulder and pointing at everything in the display case. For a guy who'd been _insanely in love_ four times in the last year, he's shit at sticking to an actual decision. Probably why he'd been _insanely in love_ four times in the last year. He's never once said those words and has had the same girl since they were 16.

It'd be more impressive if they weren't always trying to kill each other.

His thumbnail works the seam of the box till it cracks open. He stares grimly at the bright glare, willing it to detail a plan of action. Maybe he should just go get a bigger one. It'll help distract from the failure his proposal's bound to be.

He finds a plastic toy basketball in the duffel of random Knicks stuff. Why someone thought he'd want that is a mystery to him. A knife from the kitchen easily slices through one of the black ribs. He jams the box in there then throws the entire thing in his sock drawer. The one he never uses. Because all his clothes are still on the bedroom floor.

* * *

She glances around her apartment. The other one's theirs but this one's _hers_. And he hates it.

It's more of a home than her previous place but that's because of him too. _"Shouldn't you have shit up or something?"_ So she put up some pictures, of her family, of them, of him. One of the walls is growing a section of index cards held up by painter's tape. Words, thoughts, quotes, melodies, lyrics. He glares at the thing every time.

_Sorry._

Her phone buzzes with the sentiment and she rolls her eyes. Of course he is. She used to have to wring that word out of him. Now he spits it out reflexively like it's a force field against her anger. It's worked so far.

_It's okay,_ her fingers peck out. _Besides I kind of miss you saying things you mean,_ her mind adds. _Be home tomorrow._

She knows it's a stupid complaint. That he apologizes too much. But it's them and him and this is not them and him. And she misses that. She misses being able to say anything and getting an honest reaction out of him. Not that pained half-grimace before he breathes like he's running a marathon and his mouth grinds out an apology.

It's stupidest that she misses his temper tantrums but there's good reason. If he doesn't throw any, she can't throw any.

* * *

It's only sheer will power that moves her legs to the bedroom.

Finals are an invention that even she, queen of all things school, doesn't enjoy. It's freedom at last, mixed with pride for going back after three years and settling right in.

Thoughts are gone the second she catches sight of him passed out and shirtless. Her mind flickers with ideas and she almost gathers a speck of energy before he yawns _while asleep_. In moments, she's crawling onto the bed to join him.

"Haley?" His arms wrap snugly around her and she pushes her face into the crook of his neck. "Marry me."

He's probably unconscious and she's on the verge of it. Still, she answers the way she _always_ will. "Yes."

* * *

His arms stretch above the bed, careful not to disturb the slight form tucked into his side. That blue-gray light glows behind the curtains and he curses himself for falling asleep so early. Then again, it's boring in the apartment without her. And Coach had already kicked him out of their training facilities for not having a life.

He freezes at the memory. No, last night was not a dream. Yes, he really is that much of a shithead. Then he remembers the most important part. She said _yes_. Fuck it if she doesn't remember saying it, she's _his _now.

The idea's just building the shitstorm he's got brewing, but it's too good to pass up. He slips out of bed and over to the closet. His clothes are still on the floor and the ring's still in the hiding spot from months ago. He pushes it onto her finger, making sure he's got the left hand and kisses her palm. The voice in his head coughs _whipped_.

Time for some NBA Live.

* * *

She frowns heavily, knowing before looking that she's alone in bed. The pout forms until her eyes catch on the alarm clock. Noon. No wonder he's not in bed. Not even his lazy ass could sleep for 15 plus hours.

A hand is thrown onto the pillow above her and something sharp grazes her forehead. That's when she notices the absolutely huge ring weighing down her left hand.

Her burst out of the bedroom is met with no reaction. He's on the floor, still shirtless with his back against the couch and the former contents of the pantry spread around him. Even the wrapper for the rice cakes he says he hates.

"Hey, what's up? Oh, that's right. You. Finally," he snickers at his own joke, jamming the buttons on his controller. She looks on wordlessly as he fights with the device. "This is such fucking bullshit. I totally post better than this!" Her eyes roll, of course he's playing as himself.

"Do you want to explain this?" Her hand flies up but he's not even looking.

"It's your engagement ring, babe," his answer comes in short grunts. She's tempted to tell him that turning the controller doesn't do anything but she's pretty sure he already knows that. "You said _yes_ last night."

She doesn't remember anything besides stumbling to bed and waking up with an engagement ring. Whatever he said better not have been pretty. Half his words make her want to throttle him, the other half to jump him. Very rare are the occasions when he says something heartfelt and true.

"I said _marry me. _You said _yes_." He cranes his neck to look at her, but that's only because he lost. "Change your mind?" Already, she wants to throttle him.

"No," she snits back. He starts another game. "Sorry."

Her mouth throws down the gauntlet before her brain has time to catch up. He throws down his controller.

"Don't fuck with me, Haley." She shrugs her shoulders innocently even as he backs her against a wall. "Oh, no, you want us to start fighting then you start it. You're not blaming me for it."

"Fine, you apologize too damn much." Her teeth grit when his eyes widen in mock surprise.

"And you don't sing anymore. Don't see me complaining about it." He does, mentally, every time she cuts herself off. Because what's the stupid point of being engaged to a _retired _singer.

She's pressed flat against the wall by the bedroom door and they both know where this conversation is going. The five feet to their bed and no further.

* * *

"Was this angry sex or we-just-got-engaged sex?"

"Seriously? Shut up and sleep."

* * *

He never asks for the ring back and she gets used to its weight.

Her final grades arrive in the mail and the next day she finds flowers and a cake in their kitchen. The red icing reads _Congratu_fucking_lations._ She makes up a ditty about dishwashers needing detergent put in them.

She bitches about renewing the lease on her apartment. He curses at his video game and doesn't hear her. "What! Fine, so don't." He hounds a teammate into helping move the few boxes of _fucking shit_ that migrated over. The wall of notecards is reassembled above his TV.

Their mothers would start planning the wedding but they finished years ago.

* * *

"The gardens, honey. I swear I don't know what's wrong with you. The only official gardens in the nearest I don't know how many miles."

"Then how the hell am I supposed to know?" He bites back the _fuck_ when virtual him turns the ball over. "In Tree Hill? Alright, bye."

The phone hits the floor and he can feel her rolling her eyes in the kitchen. Like she didn't have the same conversation with her mother five minutes ago. "Just tell us when and where," had been her exasperated contribution to the plans.

They don't even know he proposed. Just called her one day bitching about tracking down half her wayward family before the date. October something. He thinks. He probably has a game or practice and she definitely has school.

It'd all be happening whether or not they'd gotten back together.

She drops onto the couch next to him. After taping up a new green notecard. "It's where we..."

He glances over and assesses the blush. "Did it in the back of Luke's pickup? _Nice_." She's off the couch instantly and a pen meets the back of his head. "You're going to blush through the entire thing, right?" Her response is the slam of the bedroom door.

He doesn't care what has to happen. They're totally making it there.

* * *

The next call is just as unwanted, even more inconvenient, and the most boring to date. Even she's falling asleep on him. Literally, sprawled out on top of his back and slowly decreasing his lung capacity. It's sleepiness or oxygen deprivation but he can't remember how they get to this topic.

"Wait, you actually proposed?"

"If I didn't propose, why are you planning a wedding?"

"Lydia and I figured we could just badger the two of you into it. To be honest, I'm trying to get the wedding perfect to make up for Haley never getting a proposal out of you."

The woman in question snickers in amusement. He rolls his shoulders suddenly and her head falls onto the mattress below. "Brat," he grumbles. "Well, Mom, I'm not a completely useless fuck so stop overcompensating." He pulls the battery out before she can call back and tosses the parts toward the door.

"You shouldn't talk to your mom like that."

"I shouldn't talk to my mom, naked and in bed with my equally naked fiance." He reaches out a hand and smooths it down her bare side.

"True," she bites the shoulder that jostled her out of place and squirms away from his hands. "I still don't remember that proposal."

He'd repeat it but it was just too pathetic. "Then how do you know you said _yes_?"

"Not because you said I did," she snits, shifting closer. "Wouldn't have said _no._"

His head lifts slowly and he jams a hand under his chin. "Ever?"

"Why don't you piss me off and see what happens?"

* * *

"You're being a bastard."

He sneers openly and she rolls her eyes.

"Stop acting like a baby."

He doesn't even bother responding to that one.

"You didn't make the playoffs last year." _Funny you know that when we weren't even together_ his mind snorts but his mouth just growls. "At least you made the first round this year. I don't see why you're so disappointed." Really she does but it's been over a fucking month and the bitterness and deja vu have worn her raw.

"Fuck you," he murmurs low. Her gasp is audible. "I could get traded you know that? Don't expect me to pay for two places and all the damn visits."

"I've got more than enough to stand on my own." She beats a hasty retreat to the bedroom and he grimaces before switching to Game Four. Ten minutes later she breezes out with hastily called _Leaving_ and the door floats shut behind her.

It hasn't happened in a long time and he still isn't the smartest guy in the locker room so it takes a minute. She really does have her own money and the duffel bag's been empty since school ended. A shirt and bra lay by the bedroom door, casualties of her hurried packing.

"Aw, shit, baby, don't leave." The words slip out of his mouth even as his brain processes that she's already gone. It catches up and mocks him for being fucking pathetic.

* * *

She comes back in four days. It's just to get more clothes but he tosses her on the bed and makes it impossible to walk.

The clothes she took stay gone. More go missing. The wall of notecards slowly shrinks.

* * *

He hates it at first. Because it's fucking _hick_. Not that pop-country crap on the radio but old school country-western. Like Hank Williams and shit. Don't ask him how he knows that.

It reminds her of home. It reminds him of away games, stuck on a foul smelling bus with a sadistic grouch of a coach who outlawed headphones of any kind. It's her goddamn latest inspiration. Does the woman not know they live in New York City?

All her music's migrated to...wherever so he just gets her humming old songs about dead dogs or cheating lovers or booze and God that end up stuck in his head. And he wants to kill her for it.

He catches her one day. Home early from training camp and through the small space of the partially shut bedroom door. She's wearing his damn high school jersey and nothing else, legs curled under her and guitar clutched in her lap, strumming lightly.

His foot kicks the door open and she smiles, still playing. It's slow, bone-melting sweet, and sultry and just a little lower and softer than she normally sings. He doesn't even care if it's country because the words are ripped straight from their high school days and make him ache.

He kneels by the bed, as close as he can get, and waits _patiently_ for the end. Then his hands are under the jersey and sliding it over her head. The guitar is only spared when she murmurs that she wrote the song with it. He sets the instrument down gently.

Her hands brush through his hair and she hums it again softly. He fucking loves it.

* * *

"Hey!"

She has to refocus when her eyes open. Her head reels back and she wonders why he's inches away and shaking her shoulders with an impatient frown. She wants to tell him to shove it. That song took forever to drag out of her and he already exhausted whatever energy she had left.

She holds her breath and waits.

"You're everything. Marry me."

"Yes." Her arms drag him down and she curls into his heated side.

They both breathe a quiet sigh of relief and she's almost asleep when he speaks again. "You'll remember this time?"

"Seriously? Shut up and sleep."

* * *

She still thinks his agent's an idiot, just now he's an idiot whose name she has to remember. And not a regular one who needs a distraction or alcohol to say and do things normal people wouldn't. It's the type where she wonders if hitting him over the head with a blunt object would even do anything.

But he and Nathan are almost friends now and he's negotiating for one of his old teammates from Brooklyn so she keeps her mouth shut and deals. The hissing only happens when he uses her fiancee to pick up skanks.

"Hey babe." His voice is low and gravelly and she trails her hand through his hair once more for good measure. She lays on the couch and tries to force lyrics from her mind; he sits on the floor and plays his video game. Both are distracted by her fingers sifting through the strands. "Did your mom invite Clay?"

Her fingers stall and he smirks. That's a _no_. "He promises not to sleep with your sisters." The snort comes unwillingly. "Or anyone else you tell him not to."

She rolls her eyes but nods. Their heads rest close enough he can feel the movement. The idiot will have his pick of Tree Hill High Class of '04 by the week's end.

"How are you still terrible at this game?"

"How's that song going?"

* * *

"Explain to me again why you're not coming."

"I told you I can't afford to," the blonde mumbled and stabbed at her salad.

"I told you I'd take care of it," she murmured back. Lack of money was a familiar place but she doesn't see how this constitutes a handout.

Peyton sighs and whips away her mane of curls. She glances around for the nonexistent culprit before turning back. "It's not that. Rat's looking for a reason to fire me. Unless you plan on letting me mooch off you till I find another job, can't."

The laugh is unexpected. "What'd you do?" The blonde flushes and she chortles again, "Come on, it can't be that bad. He didn't fire you on the spot. What'd you do?"

"I had a bad week," she fumbles for a defense and her companion chuckles. "Some guy was getting handsy. I kneed him in the groin. Besides, I don't think Nathan would appreciate me at his wedding."

She takes a moment to collect herself. Bad week could mean guy accidentally brushed past her on the way to the bathroom. "The idiot's going. Mom got the official RSVP. No plus one, imagine that."

An eyebrow raises in curiosity and her lips purse in amusement. "And what was I supposed to be? Retribution?"

"Yep," she agrees cheerfully. "Gone and spoiled my plans. Only ones I actually put together for this whole to-do."

"Do people still recognize you?" She's thrown by the sudden change in topic and the blonde's lowered voice and hunched shoulders. "Some woman's been staring and now she's coming over here."

"Haley James?" comes the not unpleasant voice.

She nods once and hopes this is over quickly.

"I slept with your fiancee."

Her face mirrors her complete shock and she barely registers Peyton's sharp gasp and muttered curses. "Really?" she forces herself to recline in her seat, "When?"

The other woman's on her toes. "After the season opener against Toronto. I'm pregnant."

Peyton and the unknown woman are staring in a mixture of fascination, horror, and concern. Half the restaurant join them. She grips the table for balance and the plates rattle with the force of her shaking. The woman is escorted out per Peyton's request long before she pulls herself together.

"Explain to me why in hell you're laughing."

* * *

His dark head is bent in concentration. Rap and a heavy bass leak out of the oversized headphones. Someone could rob them blind and he'd never notice.

She tosses her purse on the table and the strap whacks him in the head. Briefly, she wonders if that were actually an accident.

"Hey," he mumbles, nudging one headphone off an ear. They aren't fighting. There's no reason for her to be glaring like he forgot to put detergent in the dishwasher. The playbook slams shut and he sighs, "What?"

"You got some hussy pregnant." Her voice wavers between a statement and a question. She hears his neck crack as he turns to look at her, eyes wide. "Yep, found out at lunch. Peyton's ready to kill you."

His jaw works wordlessly. She knows he's not the smartest man ever, but some reaction has to be coming. "Are you trying to tell me something? If you are, you just called yourself a hussy."

_One point for ambiguity_ she mentally notes. "I'm not pregnant." Her lips fight the smile. He barely registers the relief before tensing again. She relays the story from lunch but leaves out her uncontrollable laughter.

Finally, he barks out a laugh and drags her into his lap, tickling mercilessly.

"I take it you didn't sleep with her." His laugh turns into an offended glare and she laughs.

"A, you fucked me senseless that night. B, I don't think I can get it up for a woman who's not you. Might be broken."

She squirms against him purposefully and chuckles at his murmur of _never mind, not broken_. "I didn't mean to throw my purse at you."

"If you had, you would have missed. Should I call Clay?" His mouth is against her neck, trying hard to focus on the importance of this but failing. "He should know."

Her hand rakes through his hair before desperately pulling him away. "Does. Took care of it." For once, the man did his job admirably. Threw the woman out of his office, after practically laughing her out the door, and didn't bother them with it, because it was obviously bullshit.

His eyebrow quirks up and she sighs dramatically. "Fine, he's not a complete idiot. But Peyton had her thrown out of the restaurant."

"Fine, her bitchiness can be useful." He kisses her until her heart rate outpaces the "music" from his headphones.

* * *

He knows there are people pissed about it. Pissed they're living some kind of magical charmed life. That she didn't turn up barefoot and pregnant during/after high school. That he didn't end up working at the corner gas station. That they weren't trapped into marriage and hopelessly miserable with three brats—because Scotts are born stupid when it comes to birth control—they could barely feed.

Instead, they're the golden couple, deigning to descend on their hometown for their wedding. For a marriage that'll be as perfect as him carrying her books and draping an arm around her shoulders to walk her to homeroom. They've ventured out into the real world _New York City!_ and still fit flawlessly.

Or at least that's what he keeps telling himself.

"Holy fucking shit, woman. Stop kicking!"

She elbows him in the head for his language—they are in a public place after all—and jams a knee into his ribs. He wheezes a _fuck_ and drops her into the black vinyl seats. Both refuse to glance around and acknowledge the spectacle they just made of themselves.

"Say you're sorry," she demands. If security didn't come when he threw her over his shoulder and marched her back to the gate, they aren't going to show when she yells at him. "Stupid fucking manwhore."

"You already knew!" He's sweating bullets because really? Now?

Okay, so she did but still. "Wrong answer!"

Her legs move to get up and he pushes down on her shoulders firmly. A voice announces over the intercom and they freeze.

"I already said sorry and you already knew."

"Wrong answer."

He's not entirely sure what the fuck she's getting at. She isn't either.

So he slept with some women when they weren't together. She did too. Slept with other men that is. They both grit their teeth whenever it comes up. The one time it came up and they refused to address it beyond the preliminary _sorry_. Until that woman in the bathroom.

She went to the bar Peyton works at, got piss drunk, and slept with the first attractive guy who offered. He did basically the same thing, but with a female. Felt equal amounts guilty and nauseous for the next few weeks, got wasted to try and forget, then made the same mistake all over again. Rinsed and repeated. It was a nice, sick cycle they found themselves in.

He had made it perfectly clear where they stood and she was not the type to wait on a white knight act. She'd find her own happiness if he was no longer willing to contribute. He was a well-intentioned, misguided ass who didn't recognize a good thing even after it bit him.

The attendant is staring directly at them, enunciating every word spoken into the microphone. Now or never.

"I want to marry you."

Oh.

Calling him retarded is an insult to those with mental challenges. Can't even string together a decent proposal and hardly recognizes it when she tries to walk out. Calling her a cryptic bitch with bad timing is understating the issue. One second it's _I can get my own luggage he-man_, and the next it's _tell me you love me._

"I want to marry you, too. Will you get on the stupid plane now?"

* * *

She forces his hand to unclench from around the armrest. It doesn't move because they're in first class and she's slightly peeved about it. He's the same way. Long legs invade her side of the legroom to press against hers.

Her fingernail traces the creases in his palm, light and gentle over the scars from rusted basketball rims. She hums their song quietly and his fingers scramble under her shirt to reach the bare skin of her back.

This is good and this is right.


End file.
